As soon as I had finished he rose, and, coming round to where I sat, offered me his hand.

“You have spoken well,” he said; “you are my brother.  You have said what I was not able to say myself.”

On the next day the architect, to show his friendship, offered to take us all over a chalet which had been built on the cliffs above the Kursaal, of which very strange tales had gone abroad.  The Count and Henry had not come back from one of their expeditions, so that only the Countess Lucia and myself accompanied M. Bourget.

As we went he told us a strange story.  The chalet was built and furnished to the order of a German countess from Mannheim, who, having lost her husband, conceived that the light of her life had gone out, and so determined to dwell in an atmosphere of eternal gloom.

To the outer view there was nothing extraordinary about the place—­a chalet in the Swiss-Italian taste, with wooden balconies and steep outside stairs.

M. Bourget threw open the outer door, to which we ascended by a wide staircase.  We entered, and found ourselves in a very dark hall.  All the woodwork was black as ebony, with silver lines on the panels.  The floor was polished work of parquetry, but black also.  The roof was of black wood.  The house seemed to be a great coffin.  Next we went into a richly furnished dining-room.  There were small windows at both ends.  The hangings here were again of the deepest purple—­so dark as almost to be black.  The chairs were upholstered in the same material.  All the woodwork was ebony.  The carpet was of thick folds of black pile on which the feet fell noiselessly.  M. Bourget flung open the windows and let in some air, for it was close and breathless inside.  I could feel the Countess shudder as my hand sought and found hers.

So we passed through room after room, each as funereal as the other, till we came to the last of all.  It was to be the bedroom of the German widow.  M. Bourget, with the instinct of his nation, had arranged a little coup de theatre.  He flung open the door suddenly as we stood in one of the gloomy, black-hung rooms.  Instantly our eyes were almost dazzled.  This furthest room was hung with pure white.  The carpet was white; the walls and roof white as milk.  All the furniture was painted white.  The act of stepping from the blackness of the tomb into this cold, chill whiteness gave me a sense of horror for which I could not account.  It was like the horror of whiteness which sometimes comes to me in feverish dreams.

But I was not prepared for its effects upon the Countess.

She turned suddenly and clung to my arm, trembling violently.

“O take me away from this place!” she said earnestly.

M. Bourget was troubled and anxious, but I whispered that it was only the closeness of the rooms which made Madame feel a little faint.  So we got her out quickly into the cool bright sunshine of the Alpine pastures.  The Countess Lucia recovered rapidly, but it was a long while before the colour came back to her cheeks.